


Playing the Field: Homegame

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Cheating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 10:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: Hawkeye and Trapper have always been best friends, but now that's changing.





	Playing the Field: Homegame

**Author's Note:**

> /emphasis/; //lyrics//; lyrics from "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaak

//The world was on fire and no one could save me but you  
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do //

In 1950, Hawkeye Pierce and Trapper McIntyre, college friends and surgeons, were drafted into the army and sent to Korea.

Both were made Captains upon their entry, although Hawkeye had a disturbing tendency to forget his bars.

Neither was quite certain when things between them began to change, but it was a series of little incidents...

\--------------------------------

Hawkeye and Trapper were best friends in college, and that easy camaraderie immediately set them apart from their tentmate, Maj. Frank Burns, who was a devout religious and military man. Hawk and Trapper shared many things, leftover from their years in college -- in school they'd often shared girls, switched rooms, and used each other's shaving cream in the shower.

This degree of familiarity between them much disturbed Maj. Burns, who didn't think that army men should "consort" with each other in the shameful way that they were doing.

But thus far, even though the Major tainted their friendship with suspicions, Trapper and Hawkeye remained simply friends.

As the days crawled by, either saturating them with too much heat or too much cold, Hawkeye and Trapper began to grow even closer than they'd ever been. Sharing a tent with a man, watching him shave, change, and shower, eventually desensitized most people. They built a still, much to Frank's chagrin, and used it to drink gin so potent it curled Trapper's hair (or so Hawkeye teased, even though the soft honey brown curls were natural and a favorite among the girls he had dated) and put holes in Hawkeye's socks, as Trapper was wont to joke. Frank ignored them the best he could, putting earplugs in his ears and praying for them every night, but the tent was unceremoniously transformed into an unsanitary mess, and then Hawkeye christened it the Swamp.

It was while he and Trapper were painting the name on the tent door in red letters when Hawkeye first noticed.

Trapper was shirtless, and Hawkeye was garbed only in his trashiest underwear and red robe, currently hanging open. He shrugged, and decided to forget about it.

\--------------------------------

But then, late one sultry night, Trapper rolled over in his cot and opened his eyes.

"Psst. Hey, Hawk -- are you asleep?"

"Not with you 'pssting' at me, no," Hawkeye replied in a voice gravelled from sleep. He adjusted positions so that he could see Trapper in the faint light. His best friend's blanket had slipped sideways, and Hawkeye could see Trapper's physique delicately outlined by the starlight outside the tent's walls. He caught a breath, and quickly turned his head away.

"Hawk, I been thinking. When this war is over, I think we oughta start our own bar. We could market this stuff."

"We'd kill all of our customers."

"Hell, it's killing /us/, or at least whatever the war doesn't, the gin will," remarked Trapper somewhat bleakly.

"Trap, I'm too tired to talk to myself. Would you go to sleep?"

"Would you two daffy doodles shut up already?" Frank hissed at them from across the Swamp.

"Sorry, Frank," Hawkeye said in his trademark sarcastic lilt. Once Frank seemed to be gently snoring again, Trapper spoke up again.

"It's hotter 'en Hell in here."

"It /is/ Hell in here. We've got the flames," Hawkeye grinned in the dim light, "the heat, and even Satan." He jerked a thumb towards Frank. Trapper snickered softly. He rolled out of his bunk, landed on the floor with an ungraceful thunk, and sat up sheepishly.

"I'm going to the latrine, Hawk," Trapper said, fumbling around for his robe. Hawkeye positioned his arms behind his head and studied Trapper, noticing for the first time the way the curls framed his face, the pale blue eyes, the somewhat-out-of-shape body that was nonetheless distressingly attractive. Trapper, flushing underneath the covert gaze, hurried out of the tent into the infinitesimally cooler compound. He stumbled over Radar on the way to the latrine -- the corporal was holding a teddy bear by one arm and rubbing his eyes with the other -- and Trapper grinned.

"Hey, Radar, what's up?"

"Choppers, sir."

"Not now, Radar, it's the middle of the night -- they can't fly at night!"

"Moon's bright enough, sir, and it's an emergency," Radar contradicted, as the sound of rotors filled the once-silent compound.

\--------------------------------

Hours later, when the sun had brightened the sky, and the emergency was under control, Trapper and Hawkeye stumbled out of Post-op covered in blood and exhaustion. Their masks hung limply round their necks in the heat, and the white of their scrubs nearly blinded them in the early morning sunlight.

"Trapper, I feel hungover."

"That's okay, I can't feel my feet. Or my head. Or anything in between."

"Back to bed then?"

"Only if we make it that far," Trapper replied, before lurching into Hawkeye's side. The rush that burst inside both of them at the contact had little to nothing to do with the heat, but they both played it off, and for a few moments refused to look at each other.

Hawkeye, slightly revitalized, cornered a nurse with his most licentious grin.

"How 'bout you, in my tent, and we can play a little doctor?"

"I've seen it all before, doctor, and it was nothing impressive. Please let me pass."

Hawkeye shrugged exaggeratedly, and moved his arm so that she could duck beneath it. Trapper came up behind him, thwacked him in the butt with his damp towel.

"Strike out again?"

"Last time I struck out this much I was in Little League."

"More like at the college baseball tryouts."

"Trapper!" Hawkeye melodramatically threw his hand over his heart. "You wound me!"

"I'll charge you less for surgery," he offered cheerfully.

"It's too hot," Hawkeye complained, as they resumed their trek towards the Swamp. When they got back inside their tent, the first thing Hawkeye observed was that Frank, their resident weasel and irritation, was out somewhere.

"Probably with Hotlips," Trapper suggested.

"A likely story."

"Gosh, it's too hot even for /sex/," Trapper moaned, flinging himself onto his cot.

"But not too hot for intense physical demonstrations such as the previous display."

"Unggh."

"Right." Hawkeye flopped onto his own bunk and stripped off all of his clothes except his boxers, then tugged the blanket over his midsection. Trapper followed his example, minus the blanket manuever. Hawkeye was almost asleep when Trapper spoke again.

"You suppose we're ever getting out of here?"

"Buy me a drink and I'll read your palm," Hawkeye said, eyes still closed.

"I'm serious, Hawk. I think this goddamn heat is gonna waste me."

"Drink more."

"Alcohol dries you out even more."

"I know that. I never suggested /what/ to drink, did I?"

"Yes, doctor."

"I wonder why my pickup lines always fall down," Hawkeye mused, still refusing to open his eyes.

"Because they're terrible, that's why. Now when I had me a girl back in Boston, with the prettiest eyes you ever saw, I just told her she had eyes like stars."

"Did it work?"

"Nah, she told me the stars didn't shine for me and walked away."

Hawkeye dissolved into giggles.

"Way to go, Trap." Hawkeye tossed a pillow at his friend, but missed because his eyes were still closed. Trapper threw it back, and scored. Hawkeye "oofed" obediently, and recoiled from the contact.

"Hot!" he breathed. "It's too damn hot even for pillowfights! What's there to do?"

"Sleep," Trapper replied, and reached for his bunk from the floor. Hawkeye cracked open an eye.

"How'd you get on the floor, Trap?"

"I laughed me right out of bed."

"Ah."

By the time the sun set, both surgeons had been asleep for several hours -- for once it was a quiet time -- and neither heard Frank enter the tent, and with a mischevious expression on his ferret face, he tugged their cots closer together. 

"That'll teach 'em," he grinned to himself. "When they wake up, they'll be so hot they'll run for the showers, and they'll trip over each other on the way. What a good joke, Frank!" he teeheed to himself.

After that afternoon, when they'd moved his bunk out of the Swamp and into the enlisted mens' latrine, Frank decided it was time for some retaliation. Or, more accurately, Margaret had decided, and even given him hints as to what he could do to get them back.

"See, Margaret, I'm just as clever as they are!" Frank exclaimed, then clapped a hand over his mouth when Hawkeye muttered and moved in his sleep.

When Trapper woke up, he rolled onto his side, opened bleary blue eyes, and came face to face with Hawkeye, face relaxed in sleep and as innocent as a childs', dark hair carelessly swept over his forehead. Without thinking, Trapper brushed a rough fingertip over Hawkeye's lips.

The soft-yet-slightly-coarse flesh of Hawkeye's mouth startled Trapper. He'd kissed many girls throughout his teenage years, but he'd never been so close to another man, and most girls spent hours softening their lips and coating them with gloss and other medicinal and cosmetic things. But Hawk's lips were unadorned and a bit chapped from the heat. Trapper jerked his finger away, unsettled by the emotions stirring within. As he removed his finger, Hawkeye sighed, and his lips trembled. Trapper lay back as quickly as he could, trying to keep his eyes away from his best friend, when Hawkeye yawned and stretched.

"What in the--?" Hawkeye sputtered suddenly, sitting straight up. "I don't remember our bunks being so cozy with each other, Trap."

"Maybe they've got crushes?"

"If metal can be infatuated with metal, especially since I am not quite so enamoured of your bunk."

"Must've been Frank," Trapper conjectured, trying to get the stain of a blush under control. Both surgeons got up from opposite sides, then pulled their cots apart.

"How did he move them while we were /on/ them?" Trapper wondered.

"Ours is not to question why," Hawkeye began, a dangerous glint in his eye, "but to dump hot water on Frank," he finished. A lazy grin spread over Trapper's face, and he impatiently wiped sweaty curls from his forehead.

Dumping hot water on Frank was just one of the many unmilitary pranks they would pull during their stint together in the Korean War, although it was the best one they managed during the summertime. But all too soon, winter descended like a hungry vulture, and fed upon what was left living in the compound until everything was desiccated and frigid.

Hawkeye and Trapper were so cold they realigned their bunks and shared blankets, trying hard not to look at each other as they did.

One instance, in the time of night that was so late it was early, Hawkeye wriggled in his sleep and awoke. Trapper had captured a blanket and twisted towards the side of the tent furthest from Hawkeye, and Frank was presumably conserving body heat with Hotlips -- someone must be pretty warm, he thought bitterly -- and Hawkeye knew of only one other way to warm himself even slightly.

It was risky, especially with Trapper so close, and rather uncomfortable, because it was so cold, but Hawkeye pulled the drawstring of his pajama pants open and slid a hand inside. He stroked gently, a circular motion, with his thumb, and involuntarily let out a sound of pleasure. Trapper stirred, but didn't awake, and Hawkeye relaxed.

He was on the verge of finishing when he sensed that Trapper was finally awake. Hawkeye surreptitiously removed his hands from his boxers and ever so slowly turned towards the wall. Moments later, Trapper breathed out sharply.

"I had the most interesting dream, Hawk," he began. Hawkeye stiffened and relaxed all at once. "I think--hell, I haven't had a wet dream since I was a kid, but it's too cold to fuck, so maybe that's why. Maybe." He didn't sound very convinced. Hawkeye shook his head, even though it was probably too dark for Trapper to see the movement.

"Trapper? Could you pass me a drink?" Hawkeye muttered through the vestiges of sleep and passion that still clung to him. Trapper obliged, shattering yet another martini glass in the process, but Hawkeye got his drink after a bit of fumbling. After he finished it, they both sunk back into sleep, and neither spoke of the nocturnal events once day had dawned.

It was later that afternoon that things finally fell into the open, much like the petals of a blooming flower. Hawkeye went into the supply tent for thermometers, and Trapper, unaware that Hawk was already inside, followed a few moments later for more plasma.

It was inside the dusky, chill supply tent that they rounded corners and bumped into each other, chest to chest. Hawkeye nearly dropped the thermometers, and Trapper, still empty-handed, announced nervously, "I need some plasma, Hawk, could you move?"

"Sure," Hawkeye answered, none of his characteristically glib replies tripping off his tongue. He maneuvered sideways, and Trapper, trying to pass, found his arm fully in contact with Hawkeye's torso.

And his swiftly beating heart...which was keeping the same frantic rhythm as his own. Hawkeye caught a breath and held it, then shoved the thermometers unceremoniously onto a shelf, and molded an arm to Trapper's spine. Trapper's eyes slipped closed, and he allowed himself to be enfolded within the strength of Hawkeye's arms. The kiss, when it finally fell upon his lips, was almost as much of a surprise to Hawkeye as it was to Trapper. Their slightly calloused and roughened lips met and startled at the similarity between them. Trapper's mouth was soft, and Hawkeye could even taste the shape beneath his own, and the sour-sweetness of liquor teased his tongue, and then they were lost within the unexpected sensations.

Hawkeye finally opened his eyes and found Trapper's skilled hands had found their way to the hollow in the small of his back, and his own were positioned one on Trapper's round bottom and the other on his bicep, and they split apart, stunned.

It was then that what had been slowly growing and changing, the comfort and familiarity that had defined them was suddenly an entirely different outline, and Hawkeye had no idea how to proceed.

Trapper didn't either, so he simply lay his head on Hawk's shoulder, and Hawk fell up against the shelf, and neither moved.

The supply tent actually began to feel warm, and the next time Hawk spoke, his fingers were idly straightening Trapper's curls, and his thumb was tracing patterns on the back of the other surgeon's neck.

"How long has this been building?" Hawkeye murmured softly into the shell of Trapper's ear. Trap lifted his head, met blue eyes with his own.

"I don't know, Hawk, but it shouldn't have been so unexpected."

"First army policy I've followed," Hawkeye remarked. "Not talking about anything of any importance."

"I should've known the night that you jacked off and I woke up from a dream about you jacking off," Trapper commented.

"/That/ was what the dream was about?"

"You'd've wanted me to tell ya then?"

"Not so much."

"I thought so."

They shared another kiss, and chose not to think about the repercussions of their actions. By unspoken agreement they both continued to chase nurses, but whenever they showered, Trapper let his gaze and fingers linger on Hawkeye's naked back and shoulders, and Hawkeye made it a practice of washing Trapper's chest. To onlookers and observers -- even the most critical and attentive -- it was innocent, the sort of interplay that becomes easy between soldiers that share everything from living quarters to latrines.

And if at night the metal on their bunks scratched together, and if they sometimes huddled as close to each other as possible to accord more heat, and if they snuck kisses when Frank was snoring, anyone the wiser for it wisely kept his mouth shut.

Henry never let on that he knew, although no one was ever sure he really knew what he knew, or even if Radar knew what Henry knew so Henry didn't have to know.

Despite it all, though, the months sped swiftly by, and Hawkeye and Trapper met often in the supply tent for thermometers and plasma.

And poor Frank, throughout it all, always wondered why his sneaky little trick failed so miserably. Hawkeye and Trapper just sniggered and refused to tell him that his own joke had wound up being on him.

~end~


End file.
